The Day the Sun Stood Still
by the scarlet phoenix
Summary: “…The maiden whom the Valar chose from among the Maiar to guide the vessel of the Sun was named Arien, and he that steered the island of the Moon was Tilion."


**The Day the Sun Stood Still**

**Or, The Lay of Athelas and Calanon**

In the First Age, after of the burning of the ships at Losgar but before the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, there lived in West Beleriand, in the city of Eglarest, a husband and wife: by name, Calanon and Athelas. Calanon was a warrior of great renown, and had fought valiantly in the defense of the city for many years. Under the leadership of Círdan the Shipright, the city had long defended itself from the attacks of Morgoth's orcs, and Calanon, as one of his leading lieutenants, had served honorably and well, inspiring his men to feats of great strength and heroism.

Athelas, the wife of Calanon, served the city as a healer. She was renowned for her skills in the healing arts, to the extent that it was a belief of the city that Athelas might heal even the worst wounds. Her appearance was plain—that of a woman with grey eyes and dark brown hair, slender of build, with hands that had seen much work. There were many women in the city more beautiful, and many men far wealthier, but no one in the city loved each other as deeply as Athelas and Calanon.

The city had been intermittently besieged for many years when Morgoth sought to break the defenses of the city at last by sending one of the Balrogs, demon-spirits of flame and shadow. Calanon led a charge of his men, and fought the Balrog bravely, but was sorely wounded in the attack. Calanon's men rallied around him, and drove the Balrog away, but Calanon had already been stabbed by a blade of Mordor. He was brought back to the city, as though in a deep sleep. Athelas worked tirelessly, staying awake many days and nights, trying cure after cure. But every day, Calanon slipped further away, deeper and deeper, into the shadows. In desperation, Athelas give him a potent concoction which held him just beyond the reach of Mandos—not dead, but on the very brink of death.

It came to pass that word of Calanon's state reached the ears of Melian, the wisest of the Maiar. Not even she knew of a way to heal the wounded Calanon, but one tale kindled hope in her mind, and so she sent word to Athelas by secret ways. It was said by Melian that as Calanon's wound was one of darkness and shadow, his cure must be one of fire and light—the dews of Anar, the last fruit of Laurelin.

And so Athelas set out to catch the Nîn Anaruin.

"I will sail out on the Belegaer, and wait for the sunrise, and catch the Nîn Anaruin when the sun touches the sea," Athelas decided. She dressed in a gown of finest white, and a snow-white cloak trimmed with swan feathers, and, taking a glass vial, went down to the bay. Now Calanon owned, as did most men of Eglarest, a ship of his own. But his ship was small, and equipped with a broad sail, and Athelas readied it on her own. Hoisting the sail, she went out onto the waters, whose surface reflected the light of Isil and the stars as clearly as silvered glass.

The air was cold, and she shivered as the craft glided over the still waters. Athelas closed her eyes, and thought of her beloved Calanon, and sang the Narsilion as she waited for Anar to rise. And the sun did rise, bright and golden, kissing the horizon. Athelas smiled, raising both arms above her head and holding up the glass vial to catch the sun's tears.

But the dews of Anar did not fall on the sea, and though the spray of the waves shimmered golden in the sunrise, they were not the cure she required. So Athelas sailed back to the bay, bitterly sorrowed.

"I will go to the plain of Ard-galen, where the wheatfields are as golden as the sun that shines on them," she decided. "Such lush grasses could be watered only by the Nîn Anaruin." She packed a bag with traveler's waybread, and, taking her glass vial, set out for Ard-galen. She traveled due north until she reached the mountains bordering Nevrast, and her dress became stained with dust and her cloak with mud. She followed the line of the mountains until she reached Minas Tirith, and her dress was ragged and torn at the hem and her cloak had lost all of its feathers. She turned north once more, following the mountains to the plain between the northern fences of Beleriand and the fortress of Angband, where the grasses grew richly and the wheat swayed in the wind. Her dress was no longer white but a weary shade of brown, and her cloak was worn and ragged at the hems. The night air was cool, and she hid herself from the eyes of the Watchers of Mordor and the Guards of Barad Eithel in the trees at the root of the mountains. The clouds opened up, and rain fell on the plain of Ard-galen, but Athelas did not leave to seek shelter in Barad Eithel.

But as the moon waned, she made her way to the center of the plain. Athelas closed her eyes, and thought of her beloved Calanon, and sang the Narsilion as she waited for Anar to rise. And the sun did rise, bright and golden, illuminating the wavering stalks. Athelas smiled, raising both arms above her head and holding up the glass vial to catch the sun's tears.

But the dews of Anar did not fall on the plain, and though raindrops trickled down every leaf and dangled from every stalk, they were not the cure she required. So Athelas put away her vial and returned to her shelter, bitterly sorrowed. And for the first moment in her trials, she despaired.

"I will climb to the top of Amon Darthir, then," she determined, though her heart lacked hope and her body was wearied. "Surely, a lofty mountain which casts so great a shadow must reach all the way to Anar, in the chariot of Arien."

And so Athelas took up her pack, and her glass vial, and made her way north to the Ered Wethrin, the range of mountains that separated the realm of Fingolfin from Beleriand. She traveled for many days in the secret and difficult passes beneath the peak of Amon Darthir before she reached the mountain, lost amid the twists and turns of the paths. And when she reached Amon Darthir at last, she despaired yet again, for she saw that the mountain itself was rocky and mist-shrouded, and the path to the peak of Amon Darthir was dangerous and nearly impassable.

But she closed her eyes, and thought of her beloved Calanon, and began her climb to the peak of Amon Darthir. She was only a quarter of the way up the mountain when her shoes were shredded to pieces, and she pulled her cloak from her shoulders, and tore it into strips, and wrapped her bloodied feet in them. Her feet pained her greatly, but she closed her eyes, and thought of her beloved Calanon, and did not despair. Shivering in the damp mist, she continued her climb. When she was halfway up the mountain, the hem of her dress caught on the rocks, and ripped her dress until it only reached her knees. But she closed her eyes, and thought of her beloved Calanon, and went on. When she was nearly at the peak, the cloak-strips that covered her feet wore through. But she knew, at last, that she had come too far, and could not turn back. And so she crawled on her hands and knees until she reached the peak of Amon Darthir.

The sun had only just passed beyond the western horizon, and so Athelas spent a long, cold night on the peak of Amon Darthir. But she closed her eyes, and thought of her beloved Calanon, and sang the Narsilion as she waited for Anar to rise. And the sun did rise, bright and golden, and for the first time, she saw the sun not as a ball of flame, but as a fruit, round and golden, borne in a chariot. The chariot was pulled by twin stallions of iridescent flame, and at the reins was a figure too bright for her to look upon.

"Arien-hiril!" she called, as loud as she could. "Arien-hiril!" The chariot slowed, and the figure seemed to look at her. "I beg you, Arien-hiril, please stop."

"I have many leagues to travel, cousin," the figure replied, not unkindly. "I cannot stop."

"My husband is dying of a wound of shadow," said Athelas, holding up her glass vial. "I seek the Nîn Anaruin to save him."

The chariot of Arien came to a stop at the very peak of Amon Darthir, and Arien herself stopped down from it. Athelas shielded her eyes, until Arien took on the _fána_ of a tall, red-haired woman garbed in gold, with eyes of the same shade.

"Do you love him, cousin?" Arien asked. Athelas looked down at her tattered clothes, and torn feet, and bloodied legs.

"More than life itself," Athelas replied truly, and Arien smiled. She took the vial from Athelas, holding it to the skin of the last fruit of Laurelin. The Nîn Anaruin trickled down into the glass vial, and Arien handed them to Athelas. She bent and kissed Athelas on the forehead, and Athelas closed her eyes at the radiant flare that resulted. Athelas' hair rippled, becoming as golden as the sun. Her eyes lightened until they were as blue as the skies above, and her tattered clothing was transformed into a gown of golden silk with slippers to match.

"Then you must return to him with all haste," Arien informed her. She returned to her chariot, lifting Anar into her arms. "My steeds will bear you to your husband, and return to me when you are safely home. They need no direction, nor guidance."

And so Arien stood atop the peak of Amon Darthir, holding Anar the Sun above her head. And it seemed to all those below that the sun stood still, and that a streak of fire flew over Ered Wethrin and down the coast, falling to the ground at last in Eglarest.

Athelas had no heed for those who stared in awe at her changed appearance, but rushed to the bedside of her husband. Her hands shook such that a little of the Nîn Anaruin spilled on the ground, but she had eyes only for Calanon. And as the dews of Anar fell into his mouth, verily his color returned, and his eyes fluttered open, and he smiled to see his beloved Athelas.

And on the ground below them, unnoticed, a plant with golden leaves blossomed. The people of Eglarest came to call it athelas, after the healer who first made it, and it was said to heal any shadow-wound.

So did Athelas and Calanon reunite, and the athelas plant grow, and the peak of Amon Darthir become burnt, on the day that the sun stood still.

* * *

A/N: So I was simultaneously re-reading The Return of the King and the Silmarillion, and I was struck by the story of Arien, a Maiar of Vána and a spirit of fire who was chosen to drive the chariot of the sun. And then I was wondering where kingsfoil came from, and why it's called athelas...and came up with this. Reviews always welcome!


End file.
